The Darkest Hour
by erindarroch
Summary: Post-RotJ. Leia tries to summon the energy and the courage to tell Han her darkest secret. Angst fest for Leia, with some sweet comfort from Han before the end. Co-authored with Justine Graham (justinegraham) Han/Leia HSLO one-shot


**Authors' Notes:** This was originally meant to be chapter one of what eventually became _Truth and Consequences_. We decided we didn't need this prelude for that story after all, so we ditched it. But on second thought, we quite like it for its own sake, so we thought we'd share. It's a bit of an angst fest for Leia, with some sweet comfort from Han at the end.

 **The Darkest Hour**

By Erin Darroch and Justine Graham

Spritely music, raucous laughter and the rhythmic thump of dancing feet filtered up through the dense canopy of the Endor forest, filling the ears of Leia Organa where she sat, sandaled feet dangling, on the edge of one of the many wide wooden platforms that made up the main Ewok village. Behind her, in the center of the spacious deck, was a squat hut made of mud and rough-hewn wood with a roof of leaf-thatch, which had been allocated for Leia's personal use by Chief Chirpa himself. And though it was late and growing colder by the minute, and though she longed to disappear inside the hut and sink into the soft bed within, there were still some matters to attend to before she could truly rest.

Leaning her shoulder against one of the sturdy wooden posts that supported the handrail above her head, she watched as her friend— _her brother!_ —Luke Skywalker strode away from her down one of the wood and rope bridges that connected Leia's platform to others in the vicinity. After a long and weighty conversation that had centered on their newly discovered kinship and the scant details Luke could tell her about their parentage, the young Jedi had finally given in to his exhaustion and gone off to find a bed. He'd declined Leia's groggy offer to share her shelter, citing its location at the heart of the evening's boisterous activity; he preferred the peace afforded by solitude, and to find it he would need to venture much further out from their current position at the center of the village. He hadn't been able to resist a little brotherly teasing, too, referring to her changed relationship with Han Solo. "Something tells me I'd only get kicked out when he turns up," he'd said with a wry smile, gesturing to Han's distant figure on the platform far below. "I'll find a bed somewhere else." Then, with a brush of his lips against her cheek, he'd departed.

Leia watched his progress now, feeling her apprehension grow with every step she saw him take. He moved nimbly, descending steadily over the shaking, swaying bridge to the next platform over, then down again, angling for the larger platform roughly ten meters below Leia's dangling feet. Many revelers had gathered there to celebrate their victory over the Empire, the destruction of the second _Death Star_ and—most miraculous of all—the death of the Emperor himself. Luke's lithe form, clad entirely in close-fitting black attire, melted into the darkness as he descended out of view around the nearest gargantuan tree trunk. Leia turned her gaze downward, seeking other familiar faces among the merrymakers. She didn't need to look far; it seemed that virtually everyone who'd participated in the final assault was here, and rightly so. The tide had finally turned, and with it hearts were jubilant and spirits high.

Even at this late hour, the victory celebrations taking place throughout the village were still in full swing and showed no signs of slowing down. The triumphant Ewoks had gleefully welcomed the other survivors of the battle to the moon's surface, and the Alliance personnel had been more than happy to enjoy the furry natives' hospitality. The elders of the Ewok tribe, elated by their active role in the victory, had even rolled out barrels of their native fermented beverage, decreeing that this was an occasion worthy of sharing the prized commodity with their new comrades from off-world. Reputedly powerful enough to sedate a full-grown Bantha, the beverage would no doubt be the source of many regrets, come morning. But the Alliance had triumphed against the odds, and they deserved a night of unfettered joviality while thoughts of tomorrow were still far away.

Leia's tired gaze roamed over the revelers, picking out the familiar figures of Nien Nunb, Lando Calrissian, Kes Dameron and many others. Spotting Wedge Antilles, she noted that he looked rather more bleary-eyed than most of the others; he'd clearly been partaking of the Ewoks' generosity with abandon. In fact, he appeared to be sitting upright only because he'd propped himself against Chewbacca's hairy bulk. The Wookiee appeared to be listing rather precariously himself, leaning one shoulder heavily against the trunk of the colossal tree at the center of the wide platform, and cheerfully imbibing along with the rest of the victors, as dozens of Ewoks, humans and assorted species of Alliance personnel danced around the small bonfire that crackled merrily in the center of the space.

Scanning the cavorting crowd below, Leia's eyes came to rest on Han. He was sitting near to where she'd left him an hour earlier, on a low wooden bench at the far edge of the platform. He was deep in conversation with a member of the strike team who'd helped them take down the shield, gesturing and laughing as he recounted some story or other. The sight made Leia's heart ache with the unfairness of it all. They'd had so little time together in the days since they'd left Tatooine, and much of that had been taken up in the medbay as Han recovered from hibernation sickness and, later, in the organized chaos of preparing to take down the second _Death Star_. Leia watched him now, savoring the sight of his carefree grin, as she anticipated delivering the news that would certainly erase the smile from his face and—she feared—possibly change things between them forever. Han deserved her honesty, though, and while she knew without question that telling him the awful truth about her lineage was the right thing to do, she couldn't quell the deep sense of foreboding that accompanied the prospect of making that revelation. Leia's stomach clenched and she felt a rush of dizziness coursing through her at the thought.

She recognized that those unpleasant physical sensations were probably also at least partly a consequence of abject exhaustion. So much had happened, and in such a short span of time, she'd had no time to fully process it all. The time between landing with the strike team and witnessing the destruction of the second Death Star was one big blur. The moment when she'd realized what Luke was telling her about his origins—and hers—was a monstrous black hole, an emotional and mental vortex that threatened everything she believed to be true about herself, and everything she held dear. And now the cumulative effects of physical and mental stress were taking their toll. Her eyes were gritty, her entire body ached, and she felt as though she could fall asleep sitting straight up.

With a jerk, she realized that she had in fact closed her eyes and was swaying precariously on her lofty perch. Recognizing that plummeting ten meters to the platform below would _not_ be a good way to end the evening, she climbed wearily to her feet and stood for a moment at the railing, rubbing her arms and shivering in the cool evening air. Glancing down again to the platform below, she saw that Luke had finally emerged from behind the enormous tree and was now approaching his friends. He navigated through the dancing Ewoks to speak briefly to Lando, Chewie and the others, no doubt saying his goodnights, before turning to speak to Han. As Leia watched, Luke motioned up to where she stood at the edge of her platform. Han's eyes followed Luke's gesture and he met Leia's gaze across the distance, flashing a grin and giving her a wink. She tried to return his smile, but the attempt felt tremulous and weak. She saw him stand and bid Luke goodbye, then wave to the others as he made for the foot of the winding walkway that would lead him up to her level. Turning away from the rail, Leia paced over to the door of the hut, realizing as she did so that she was alternately wringing her hands together and clenching her fists. To control her fidgeting, she clamped her arms across her chest, trying to quell the ache in her gut. Within moments, Han would be standing before her and she would have to tell him the awful truth:

 _Darth Vader was my father._

Shuddering, Leia sank down onto a low wooden bench that was fixed just outside the door of the hut, smoothing the skirt of her borrowed dress over her thighs, and wiping her palms on the coarse fabric. Her hands were trembling, she noticed, and the tight band of constriction around her chest had reduced her breathing to rapid, shallow respirations that did nothing to calm her nerves. She was terrified, she realized with a faint sense of wonder; rattled by fear and a terrible feeling of apprehension. She'd faced many threats in the past year or two, but none of them had seemed so horribly _personal_ as the threat of losing Han. And while she wanted to believe that he wouldn't react with outright revulsion, it was difficult to imagine him reacting in any other way. It was truly a repulsive reality, and one that she hadn't even fully wrapped her own mind around yet. If Han—or for that matter, Chewbacca, Lando or any of their other friends—came to think of her and Luke differently after they heard the news, who could blame them? Vader had been a twisted, psychopathic murderer of millions who'd tortured and manipulated each and every one of them in different ways, and they'd all had reason to hate and fear him. On learning the truth, Leia's own thoughts had shifted immediately in the direction of genetics, and destiny. With a father like that, was she doomed to follow that dark path? Was Luke? They were both grounded, moral, and _human_ —but so had Anakin Skywalker been, according to Luke, before he'd succumbed to the pull of the Dark side and the need for power. And if Leia's own thoughts had gone straight to that question, she could imagine that Han's might do the same.

Leia dragged her attention away from those speculations, pressing her lips together and balling up her fists as she tried to harden her resolve. Han was on his way up, and she needed to focus. She didn't intend to drag it out, or to attempt a lengthy explanation. She would simply speak the words, and hope for the strength to accept the consequences.

When she heard the scuff of Han's boots on the wooden walkway, however, all of her resolve drained away on a tide of pure anguish; she didn't _want_ him to know. Her connection with Han had been both forged and tested by the harsh realities of war—and it was strong—but she feared this revelation would prove to be a step too far, a fact too sickening for him to forget or set aside. With effort, she swallowed past the knot in her throat and took a deep, deliberate breath.

"So this is where you've been hiding out," he called to her as he approached, the slight gravelly timbre of his voice suggesting he'd indulged in some of the Ewoks' potent drink during the evening's festivities himself. "I don't know about you, Princess, but I'm _done_. I can't tell another story, can't eat another bite, and I sure as hell don't need to drink anymore." He gave a chuckle of amusement as he moved to stand beside the bench where she sat rigidly upright with her hands clenched in the folds of her dress. "Did you see Wedge? He can hardly—."

He stopped short as he caught sight of Leia's face, and his expression changed from mildly amused to sharply concerned. "Hey, what's the matter?" He glanced over his shoulder in the direction that Luke had taken a few moments before, and then sank down onto the bench beside her, bracing his hands on his knees. "Look, just because he's apparently your _brother_ now doesn't mean I can't still kick his ass. Especially if he's gonna keep upsetting you like this every time you two talk."

His tone was lightly teasing, but Leia detected a thread of sincerity and protectiveness there that almost made her want to smile, though the muscles of her face felt frozen in place. When she didn't answer him right away, he shifted slightly on the bench to face her and dipped his head to catch her eye. "Sweetheart?"

Leia met his gaze for an instant and then looked away, fearing that the open look of concern in his eyes would steal away her last bit of courage. "We need to talk," she managed, but her chest was so tight her voice came out as a hoarse whisper. She cleared her throat, lifted her eyes to his, and tried again. "There's something I need to tell you."

"Okay," Han said agreeably, resting one warm hand on her thigh. He gave it a light, reassuring squeeze. "So, tell me."

She stared at him for a long moment, but her lips felt as though they were sealed shut, carved into the immovable mask of her face. Her eyelids felt as heavy as duracrete and every time she blinked it seemed to take a monumental effort to drag them open again. She was too tired and overwrought to think.

Han's eyes roamed her face, his dark brows quirking up in concern. "I was only kidding, but _does_ this have something to do with Luke? What were you two talking about for so long? He didn't mention anything was wrong when he stopped to say goodnight…."

"No," she said. "Yes." She halted, shook her head, then covered her face with both hands and let her shoulders slump. "I don't know. I'm so _tired_."

Han was silent for a moment, his thumb absently rubbing her thigh through the thin fabric of her dress as he waited for her to continue. But Leia found it impossible to go on. The prospect of the conversation was too daunting, and she'd never felt as physically and emotionally wrung out as she felt in that moment. She dropped her hands into her lap and heaved a deep sigh. She didn't even think she had the strength to stand up on her own, and she was seized by the overwhelming and very uncharacteristic urge to burst into tears. Though she didn't want to delay it, she realized that telling Han about Vader would _have_ to be postponed until tomorrow, when she could actually think straight and form coherent sentences. Studying her downcast face, Han seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

"Sweetheart," Han's voice was warm with affection as he slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close against his side. "Whatever it is, it can wait. You're dead on your feet, and I'm not far behind." He jostled her gently until she looked up at him once more. At close range, she could see that his hazel eyes were red-rimmed from bonfire smoke, deep fatigue and a little too much Ewok alcohol. Lifting his free hand to her face, he tipped her chin up and brushed a soft kiss against her lips, the heavy stubble on his face scraping lightly against her skin. He drew back and met her gaze again, a half-smile alight behind his eyes. "C'mon, let's go to bed."

Leia felt a little rush of relief at that familiar phrase, and at the hope of respite that it offered. The thought of simply crawling into bed with Han, pulling his arms around her like a blanket, and letting the sound of his breathing lull her to sleep was comforting beyond words.

 _One more night,_ she thought blearily. _Just one more night before I hit the detonator._

Wordlessly, Han stood and took her by the hand, then pulled her gently to her feet. She swayed for a moment, curling her fingers around the cloth of his black vest to keep her balance, and then allowed him to lead her back towards the thatched hut. The lightweight door of woven bark swung open at his touch, and he ushered Leia inside, guiding her with a hand placed lightly at the small of her back. Ducking down to clear the low opening, he followed her into the dim interior, and then shut the door behind him.

The roughly circular room held a small stone-lined pit at its centre, filled with dully glowing embers that were all that remained of the untended fire. Han stooped to add a few branches and a small log from the pile that was stacked against the wall near the door. Dry strips of bark clinging to the wood caught immediately, stoking the flames sufficiently enough to illuminate the interior of the simple dwelling, which Leia took in with glazed eyes. Long branches lashed together with vines and covered with leaf-thatch formed the low vault of the ceiling overhead, and a gap in the center acted as a chimney, drawing the smoke from the fire upwards and allowing it to escape. Cooking pots, simple tools and weapons, as well as other belongings of the villagers who lived there hung from crude hooks on the thin plank walls, or sat clustered in piles on the floor.

While Han tended to the fire, Leia was drawn to the low, round bed that dominated the back hemisphere of the room. It was enormous, no doubt because Ewoks were accustomed to sleeping together in family groups, sometimes five or six to a bed. The wooden frame of the nest-like structure was sturdy, and piled high with soft furs. Beside it lay a heap of Leia's discarded clothes, including the uniform and camouflage cape she'd worn when their strike team had landed on Endor. Overcome by fatigue, she scuffed towards the bed without even bothering to lift her feet properly, propelled by the blissful vision of sinking into its concave depths. Reaching the edge, she was poised to crawl beneath the nest of furs piled in its sloping centre when Han caught her by the shoulder and turned her gently around to face him.

"C'mon, Sweetheart," he encouraged. "You can't sleep in your shoes." He gave her a look of affection and kindness that, even in her exhausted state, gave Leia a warm glow.

"I could sleep _standing up_ in my shoes," she mumbled, convinced that it was true. She squinted at him with bleary eyes, noting foggily that somewhere between the door and the bed he'd discarded his black utility vest and untucked his shirt from his trousers. As she watched, he reached over his head to pull his own shirt off, dropped it carelessly to the floor, and then glanced back down at her sandaled feet.

"You want a hand?" he offered, and then, not waiting for an answer, crouched to free her feet from the borrowed shoes. She waited, passive as a child, as his deft fingers loosened the straps. Placing a hand on his shoulder for balance, she lifted one foot and then the other, allowing him to divest her of the footwear. He straightened to his full height and nudged the sandals out of the way with his foot, then fixed her with a contemplative look. "You really _must_ be tired," he commented wryly, before reaching for the belt that cinched her dress.

Leia didn't protest; in that moment, she couldn't have formed another sentence. She felt feeble, disoriented, and past the point of caring whether she had clothes on or off. She just wanted to sleep, to forget about her conversation with Luke, to forget about Darth Vader and, especially, to forget about the need to tell Han anything. His attentions were threatening to undo her wavering composure, though; it had been a very long time—her late childhood, at least—since anyone had looked after her with such tender care. His simple and loving actions in undressing her for bed were evidence of the intimacy and trust between them that she wanted so desperately to preserve. Though it had taken years to build up to it, ultimately she'd allowed Han to see the weakest and most vulnerable aspects of her inner self, aspects no one else would ever see. It was Han's absolute and unconditional acceptance of her, his steadfast belief in her, that she most dreaded losing. Those dark fears made her head swim, and she blinked rapidly, trying to focus instead on what he was doing.

Nudging her arms out of the way, he unwound the fabric belt where it circled several times around her waist, letting it fall to the floor after the final pass. His hands moved up to the laces that tightened the bodice of her dress, then gave them a few gentle tugs to loosen them. "Lift up," he instructed. When she raised her arms, he slipped the coarse garment up and over her head, then tossed it atop the other items of clothing piled in a heap beside the bed. The white underblouse quickly followed, leaving Leia clad only in her standard-issue Alliance underwear, and a broad white bandage around her upper arm.

"How's it feeling?" Han's hand hovered over the Bacta-treated wound, being careful not to touch it. Leia blinked and looked down at the arm, bemusedly remembering that she'd been injured. The dull throb she felt there seemed to have blended with the overall aching of her body. She shrugged a noncommittal response, and watched as Han flashed her of look of concern, then turned to rummage through the pile of clothing at their feet.

Leia shivered as drafts of cool air flowed through the spaces around the door and roof thatch. The tiny fire was already beginning to fade, and the light in the room was growing dim again. Han sank to a crouch, quickly sorting through the jumbled mound of clothing, and straightening up after a moment with Leia's tank top in his hands. Leia frowned and shook her head as she reached to undo the clasp of her bra, shrugging the straps off her shoulders and tossing the item to the floor. Wordlessly, she pointed to Han's own discarded shirt and waited while he retrieved it. He gave her a faint smile as he slipped it over her head and guided her arms through the long sleeves. Gathering her hair at the nape of her neck, he pulled it free of the collar and let it drop loosely down her back, then leaned down to place a kiss on her forehead. "That better?"

"Yes," she responded, shoving the sleeves up to her elbows to free her hands. Han's shirt engulfed her small frame, but it would stave off the chill of the night air, and she found it comforting in other ways, an echo of his own warm embrace. As if reading the direction of her thoughts, Han slipped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close. She sank against him and closed her eyes.

"You okay, Sweetheart?" he murmured into her hair, rubbing one hand across her back.

Leia felt so far from _okay_ , she couldn't even formulate a response. Instead, she used the last of her energy to wrap her arms around his waist, then pressed her face against the warm skin of his chest and held him close in a fierce embrace, though her limbs trembled with the effort. She splayed her hands flat against the muscles of his back and pressed herself against him, as if trying to merge her body with his. She breathed in the musky, woodsy, smoke-laden scent of him, and then released her breath on a shuddering sigh.

 _One more night._

Despite her efforts at self-control, she felt the sudden sting of tears as her throat closed up. She'd already lost so much: parents, family, friends, Alderaan. And some faintly superstitious part of her had clung to the belief that, because of how profound those losses had been, she couldn't possibly be subjected to _more_. The universe, she thought, must be like all natural things, striving always for balance, for equilibrium. After so many losses, surely she deserved to keep _something_ she treasured? Just one thing? Distressed and too overwrought to fight it, Leia gave in to an uncharacteristic moment of unfiltered self-pity. Her breath hitched in her throat as she tried to stifle the urge to cry. It was a tiny noise, almost inaudible, but Han heard it and his arms tightened around her.

"Hey," he murmured in her ear. "It's okay, Sweetheart." For a long moment, he said no more than that, but it was enough. He simply held her, warm hands gently stroking her back and shoulders. After a while, he loosened his hold and drew back, trying to catch her eye. "Look at me, Leia."

She hesitated for a moment, afraid that meeting his gaze would unravel what was left of her composure. Han reached up to cup her face, rubbed a thumb lightly across her cheekbone, and waited. After a moment, she raised her eyes to his and felt her breath catch again. As she'd feared, the love she saw in those hazel depths was her undoing. She felt her face crumple as the tears she'd been holding back spilled over, and she buried her head in the hollow of his shoulder, hiding her face from view.

"Aw, Sweetheart, it can't be that bad," Han soothed, cradling the back of her head in one hand.

"It _is_ bad," she whispered with conviction.

"If you say so. But everything's worse when you're tired, Princess." He stroked her hair, letting his hand drift down the full length of her loose tresses, grazing along the curve of her back all the way down to her hips. Then he lifted his hand and repeated the motion slowly, comforting her with his rhythmic touch. "And you are _way_ past tired."

Leia huddled in his arms, drawing solace from the warmth of his embrace and the gentleness of his caresses. After a moment, she lifted her head to look up at him, too bleary-eyed to focus on his face, but craving affirmation and reassurance. Han read her desire easily enough and lowered his mouth to hers. His lips were warm and soft, and he tasted of woodsmoke and alcohol. Leia breathed him in, and focused all of her awareness on the sweet sensations of his mouth moving against hers, his arms tightening around her back. When they parted, she kept her eyes closed for a moment, trying to summon the energy to lift her heavy eyelids once more.

"C'mon," Han's deep voice intruded into her consciousness, and Leia realized with a jolt that she'd been micro-sleeping on her feet, held upright only by his embrace. Han released his hold on her, stepped around her to draw back the topmost of the plush fur blankets, and then gestured with a jerk of his head towards the inviting nest. "Get in."

Leia needed no further encouragement. Planting one knee on the edge of the deep mattress, she leaned forward and then crawled on hands and knees to the centre of the bed, and settled herself on her side, cradled in warmth and softness. She fought to stay awake until Han was beside her, but the instant she was lying down the steady thumping of the distant drums drifting up from the ongoing party below became a lulling rhythm, and her drowsiness was overpowering. Her eyelids were so heavy she barely registered the sight of Han unbuckling his holster rig, tucking it within his reach near the edge of the bed before stripping off his boots, belt and trousers and climbing in beside her. He shifted to get comfortable, and then drew her close, aided by the slightly concave structure of the bed. When she was nestled snugly against his long body, with his strong arm curved around her back, she sighed.

"Tomorrow," she murmured, a promise both to him, and to herself.

"Okay, Princess," Han soothed, absentmindedly rubbing her hip, and planting a soft kiss on her hairline as slumber overtook her. "Tomorrow will come soon enough."

 **The End**

 **A/N:** The story _Truth and Consequences_ picks up where this leaves off.


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